


This Might Get Messy, Kids

by ladyfoxxx



Series: Dustverse [1]
Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Dustverse, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfoxxx/pseuds/ladyfoxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Dustverse fic. Written when the tweeting started, and before <a href="http://www.mychemicalromance.com/trailer/">Art Is The Weapon</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Might Get Messy, Kids

**Author's Note:**

> References to offscreen character death.
> 
> This fic is also available as [a podfic](http://podklb.livejournal.com/8038.html).

"Shit's all fucked up in the zones kiddies, so watch your backs. This is Dr. D signing off, 'til next time. You know how to hear me, but you'll never find me."

Gerard flicks the transmission switch to 'off' two seconds before the battered kitchen timer whirrs a half hearted trill. He's been setting it to one hour before each broadcast lately. Too short to be sweet, but when he says he won't be found, he fucking means it. They find him, they find everyone with him, and though it was never his aim to be any kind of leader, that's how things panned out and these guys depend on him now. He has to keep them all safe.

He slumps back in the broken lawn chair, held together with duct tape and harsh words, and lets his body go limp. It's like coming down from the best and worst high, that moment he cuts the broadcast, killing his voice from a dozen or ten thousand beaten up transistors scattered over the zones. It's like talking to everyone and no one at once, like being onstage in front of an invisible audience and he hates it and aches for it almost as much as the stage itself.

He picks sand from under his fingernails, waiting for his heartbeat to slow. There's sand fucking everywhere. The desert's a great place to be invisible but he got jack of the sand on day one. It's in everything. His hair, his clothes, on every surface of the tiny box he broadcasts from. He glances around the room, seeing grains scattered over the 8 track, cassette deck, battered old CD drive all tied together with stolen cables and Ray's genius. They had to give up on vinyl when they moved out here, too many LPs getting ruined by sand, Gerard's conscience couldn't take it. It's amazing the equipment doesn't break down more often. The transmitter they're using is at least fifty years old and it hasn't quit yet.

Fucking analogue man, it was so weird to go back to it, but it was the easiest and most available. Analogue is made for resistance, digital ones and zeros are for the fucking evil overlords. Gerard's musing on a love letter to frequencies when the trapdoor in the roof buckles in, and a pair of feet in mismatched Chucks dangle through the opening.

Frank could just use the ladder, but he never takes the easy route. It's why he's out here in the desert instead of back in Battery City being a flesh robot at a factory. His feet hit the floor, blowing up another cloud of sand and when Gerard looks up at him he's grinning, wild and manic. Frank's still in the same patched up camo's he's been wearing for weeks, stained with blood and dirt. Water's hard to come by in the desert so you get used to being dirty. It took Frank longer to adapt than most.

"Supply run go okay?" Gerard asks, shutting off the equipment. They need to save any energy they can.

"We got enough juice to keep the genny going another two weeks at least. Couple of blasters. Couple of nitros. No skirmishes. I'd say we weren't noticed." Frank cracks his knuckles, looking satisfied with himself.

"Any food?" Gerard asks, not even bothering to ask about clothes or equipment even though they're in desperate need of both.

"Sure. I hope you like beans." Frank hands him a can of three bean medley from his calf pocket. "Because we've got plenty now."

"The taste of freedom." Gerard says in weak voice, shooting Frank a wry grin and twisting the can in his hand. "Anything's better than lizard."

Frank shakes his head. "I wouldn’t know." Frank's chosen hunger over eating flesh more times than Gerard can count. Most times he can't decide if he's impressed or disgusted. "So, you got the scab grab? I thought I could do it tonight. Get it out of the way."

Gerard wants to argue that Frank only just got back, it's too soon for him to be out again, they have other people who could do it, but he knows better than to argue. Frank gets stir crazy if he has to stay underground too long. Gerard rummages under the sagging table to pull out a loaded canvas bag. He shoves the can of beans inside it before he hands it to Frank.

"I was thinking out near the old whiskey purification centre. I can ping it in the next broadcast." Gerard offers and Frank nods, shouldering the bag.

There's a moment of discomfort where Gerard feels like he should say something else, but he can't find it. Frank's lingering, even though he hates this room, it's too small, to claustrophobic for him, even if he is shorter than Gerard.

"So, I caught the broadcast. Motorhead, hey? Nice." The lightness in Frank's voice sounds forced.

"It's motivating. Good for morale." Gerard's fingers are twitching at the pocket of his shirt for cigarettes before he forgets they ran out two weeks ago.

"So's Desolation Row." Frank points out, even though he knows better. When Gerard meets his eyes they're screaming challenge. Never the easy route.

"We lost a lot of people 'cause of that song." Gerard narrows his eyes, his blood starting to sing.

"And we gained even more." Frank's words are an argument, but his tone is gentle. "You gotta let it go, man. It wasn't your fault. Losing Bob-"

"That gig was my fucking idea!" The words explode from Gerard's mouth and he's on his feet in a nanosecond, the dying chair flopping into a pile behind him as he barrels on. "And how many people did we lose at that show, Frank? How many?"

"It was a fucking raid-"

"We went in a five piece and came out a four piece. That's on my fucking head, not yours." Gerard presses down images of the night, the blood, the baying crowd, Bob's kit toppling. He doesn't want to think about what happened to Bob. He's either dead, turned or tortured and it makes him feel like a traitor to know which one he'd prefer.

"So, what? You're just gonna sit in this tin box and play other people's music? That's not what I signed on for, Gee."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry. _Doctor_." Frank sneers, staring Gerard down.

"We are helping people here, Frank. We tell them what's what, that they're not alone, where the shit's going down." The words are familiar. It's like his mantra now.

"And that's great, that's fucking Christmas, D. It's good shit and I'm glad we're doing it but, you know, that's not what they need. It's a fucking band-aid and you know it."

Gerard has to look away, count the grains of sand stuck in the ridges of the speaker because it's too much to see Frank like this. It's too close to the same fire Lyn used to blaze, pushing for change, for a fight they can't win. He and Lyn used to ignite that in each other, coal to fire. They thought they were so fucking invincible back then.

He buried the notion of an uprising when he buried her. It's too much of a risk. They've made too many ghosts already.

"These kids, they need something to believe in. Something to fucking fight for. When we were playing, we gave them that." Frank shoves a CD onto the uneven trestle that holds the broadcast equipment. Gerard doesn't even need to read the scrawled writing across the surface to know what it is.

Gerard looks at him, finally. There's spots of colour on Frank's cheeks and his eyes are burning. The ache, the one Gerard's so fucking familiar with, flares up into his throat and nearly chokes him. He pushes it back down, fighting to breathe. Seems his heart doesn't like the easy route either.

"Stump said he can sub in for us, 'til we find someone. You should think about it. Gerard."

His name sounds almost alien from Frank's mouth, it's been so long since he's heard it aloud. He knows Frank's doing this on purpose, reminding him who he used to be, the stupid, cocky, undisciplined asshole who didn't know when to quit. He picks up the CD; the jewel case is cracked, sharp under his fingers.

He doesn't say a word but when he looks up Frank's watching him, lips quirked in his weird half-smile. It could be a moment or a minute they linger, eyes locked, before Frank hefts the bag, tossing it up through the trap door. He's halfway up the ladder when Gerard finds his voice.

"Watch your back out there."

Frank swings around on the ladder to grin full power at Gerard, "I always do."

The smile Gerard sends back is soft and it feels strange on his lips. "Don't get yourself ghosted, those girls need their dad."

"All star." Frank smirks, launching himself off the top rung and scrambling through the trapdoor, one foot dangling a moment before he vanishes from sight. Gerard shakes his head, knowing it was worth the blast he caught ducking into that junkyard to snag the tacky mug for Frank. Even if it'll leave a scar.

With Frank gone the room is too silent. He can barely hear the hum of the genny, but it's there if he looks for it, steady and calming. He turns the CD case in his hands, the corners sticking sharp in his palms as his reflection slides in and out of view on the mirrored surface of the disc. He chews his lip, lost in a mess of words and faces, hopes and risks.

He flips the case open and pops out the disc.

This might get messy.

***

Somewhere in Zone 4 a scratched up radio fights the constant wave of static to blare out a barrage of guitars and drums, Gerard's voice snarling over the top. Mikey looks up from the blueprints under his hands, glancing across the trailer to Ray, who's looking right back at him, soldering iron frozen in his grip.

They both smile.

 

~end


End file.
